My Narrator Moves In With Me

When he first snuggled up
in bed next to me,
I was dreaming
of a girl who may be
my Muse.
That first night, I just slid
against the wall, hid
my face, and let him stay.

In the morning, he sat at the desk.
He was drinking tea
brewed in my mug,
so I ate toast with a dry mouth.
He didn’t turn his blond head,
statue in steam of milk and sugar.
Did I know he was blond?
Not before then.
But he was.

I went to class, I ate, I met
the Muse for what neither of us
would call a date. I didn’t tell her
I slept with a man
each night. I didn’t expect him
when I got home.
But there he was.
He helped me out of my coat.

Perhaps he had always been
beside me, quieter maybe.
But my poems grow late,
and my stories slide out
half-baked like a second-rate
sales pitch. He cried from

At night,
he reached a hand
over my side
and jerked me off quietly.
I let him do as he wished;
my body didn’t shrink.
He sweat.
I felt it from the shoulder
pressed into my back. The Muse
says French is sexy. I am terrible
at learning languages.
But my narrator is fluent.
I ask if he can teach me.
He refuses.
I think he
may be jealous.

He asks if I want her
just for her body.

Each night
he collects my semen
in his hands,
and washes it into the sink.
I hear him do it.
I never touch him back.
One morning, he asks
why I never kiss him
goodbye. I ask him
why is he here?

On Sundays, he goes to Church,
I stay home.
The Muse says something in Spanish,
but I don’t understand.
(he would)

Martin Conte has been published in Sixfold, Glitterwolf Magazine, Words and Images, and other literary journals. He currently lives in Portland, Maine, where he is procrastinating on two chapbooks, a novel, and a new play. You can read his confusion at

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